


I Saw You In A Dream

by maroon



Series: mermaid wants a kissy [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Badass Jaskier, Creature Jaskier, Immortal Jaskier, Long Haired Jaskier, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mermaid Wants a Kissy, Other, Pre-Slash, Self-Indulgent, Young Geralt, Young Jaskier, well. young is definitely used loosely here, what little betaing that was done was done under duress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22374661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: His eyes track the crowd one last time, and this time around, they fall onto pale hands gripping at a worn looking lute, a sharp smile and brown hair that falls into a loose braid just past strong shoulders and shy of a trim waist. A bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: mermaid wants a kissy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610608
Comments: 21
Kudos: 647





	I Saw You In A Dream

Geralt has always found Skellige _quaint._ Beautiful coastal towns, tanned women, sea-eyed men, immensely flavourful fish dishes, surprisingly sweet ale. He likes Skellige. He likes going to Skellige to imbibe in ale, women, and fish, and sometimes, work brings him to the coastal isles. 

But this town—Harviken. He does not like it here.

One of the townsmen had approached him after he’d picked up the notice on the town’s post board, blabbing about something in the lake, how it’s _killing people, I tell you, I know it, but it’s just so beautiful—_ Geralt, of course, had given the man a listen. You never know with these things. 

He pays for a stall to house Roach in, the horse whinnying in her own little mutiny, stomping and swishing her head around like an unruly colt. Geralt huffs out a low laugh and pats her gently, calming her with a low voice. She settles after a little while, huffing against Geralt’s chest to show how displeased she is that he’s leaving her behind. 

Geralt reasons that the two of them cannot fit in a twelve foot skiff. Roach huffs as if she knows he’s bullshitting. But he’s not. Between the two of them, a horse and a full grown witcher, a small boat would paint a haphazard and ridiculous picture. 

Before he sets off, a group of men and women push a red-faced man towards him, eyes red and twisting something in his hands. Geralt appraises him and waits for him to get on what he needs to say, but after a minute, he opens his mouth to finally speak. The crowd that had volunteered him up to Geralt like a pig to slaughter stare unabashedly, looking as if they were holding their breaths. 

He thrusts the small scrap of fabric in his hands, and Geralt’s eyes widen when he feels the hefty weight of a whole gold bar inside it. The man, as jittery and manic he looks, seems awfully adamant that Geralt have the gold bar. 

“Kill the things in the lake,” He tells him, “the-the blue… ugly things. But not anything else.” 

Geralt frowns deeply. Taking this as a beginning of a rejection, the man’s already red eyes become laden with tears, face pink from exertion. “I have more gold. We will find more gold. The siren—” he pauses. “The _siren_.” 

A _siren_? 

The witcher regards the spindly man with a sharp-eyed glare. “If it gets in my way, I’ll kill it.” 

The townspeople seem to keen in pain at this, one woman bursting into tears. Geralt scratches at the growing beard on his face. Whatever this creature is, siren or no, it’s got this town in an enthrallment the likes of which Geralt’s never seen before. It must either be very, very old, or extremely powerful, or both. 

Either way, now that Geralt’s been informed of the powerful creature that resides with the drowners, he decides that he’ll have a go at it in the morning, where he can see much easier. Killing sirens in the dead of night is something Geralt has grown out of. 

He shoves the gold bar in his satchel and heads straight to the pub near the docks of the town, equally as small as the town it is nestled in. Geralt carefully opens the rickety looking door, eyebrows climbing up when he’s greeted by the sound of a lute and raucous laughter, the scent of mulled wine and fish overpowering. 

A well-endowed barmaid ushers him in and through the throng of people with a beatific smile, her eyes glazed over red like the rest of them.

He wonders what kind of siren doesn’t kill its prey.

“Ale?” She asks him, and Geralt nods, taking a seat at the far end of the pub. He tracks the thick crowd for the source of the enchanting music, not seeing much through the densely packed pub. The barmaid returns with a tankard of ale and a plate of what seems to be beef stew, something that gives Geralt pause, though he quickly recovers. Just because this is a fishing village doesn’t mean they eat fish exclusively. 

She places a hand on her hip when she notices Geralt looking about. “That’s Jaskier’s doing,” she motions at the crowd of way too happy people, “This town’ll be dead without him, I swear.” 

With that, she’s off, laughing when someone catches her by the waist and begins to dance with her. Geralt returns to his meal. 

The crowd thins out when the music slowly dies, dancing stopping, the crowd’s singing more mellow, and Geralt thanks the goddesses for the blessed quiet that trinkles in once the lute begins playing something slower and sleepier, this time accompanied by a sweet voice, just in time as the sun sets. 

His eyes track the crowd one last time, and this time around, they fall onto pale hands gripping at a worn looking lute, a sharp smile and brown hair that falls into a loose braid just past strong shoulders and shy of a trim waist. A bard. 

Geralt stares at him a little bit more, before continuing to eat his stew, dipping some bread the barmaid had given him into the thick, orangey soup. 

The bard rips Geralt away from his food once more, though this time by his laughing, which is loud and mellow. He, again, returns to his food. There’s so much of it that he wonders if the cook was told that they’d be feeding a witcher, not just some normal town idiot. 

“Witcher,” the bard hums, catching Geralt off guard, having not heard the man approach him. “You’re a witcher. The… white hair and permanent frown really sells it.” 

Geralt grunts. “Good thing I’m not selling anything.” 

“Catty,” The bard perches on the table Geralt is occupying, tilting his head in palpable curiosity. “You’ve come to kill the drowners, then?” 

“What gave it away?” 

“Hm,” Blue eyes track Geralt’s eyes, lips curling impishly. “The miserable look. The very big swords. That bar of gold sticking out of your man-purse.” 

Geralt fights the urge to fidget with the satchel to hide said bar of gold. “The townspeople. They’re desperate.” 

The bard laughs, but quickly sobers up. “They are, aren’t they? So many have died. That little lake, the children used to play there, you know? Ah,” he hops off the table and swings his lute to rest atop his stomach, playing three quick chords in succession. “Be a dear, witcher, walk me to my home. I’ll tell you about Harviken.” 

Geralt knows that the man doesn’t mean to bed him, even if the heat behind his eyes should say otherwise. He doesn’t have the tell-tale smell of arousal, the prominent scent of sweet mead and something thicker. No, he smells like oleander and seafoam, a peculiar combination of scents if he’s ever smelled one, but enthralling nevertheless. 

When he follows the man outside, stew and ale all but finished, he is surprised to see that Harviken isn’t as ugly as he’d thought it was. 

**

Geralt also does not like fishing. He especially doesn’t like sitting in a damp little twelve-foot skiff, while waiting for the lake to at least do something, bubble or quiver or _anything_. He’s been waiting for the whole day, and he thanks his lucky stars that he had enough coin to stable Roach before he trudged towards the lone lake in the middle of the backwater town, filled with whores and smithies and bakers desperate to get rid of the pack of drowners that’s made a home in their quaint little watering hole. 

They were paying a hundred gold for a single drowner head, and Geralt is looking to kill all of the pack. They’ve already given him a bar of gold to leave a siren be. Maybe he’ll get a little bit of water in his lungs, get scratched up, but such is the life of a witcher. After all of this, he can buy a room, food, and a whore, and some of the good oats for Roach. Then he’ll be on his way. 

Now, if only these fucking drowners got on with the goddamned program. 

Geralt sits in the little boat until sundown and even after then, fireflies illuminating his surroundings. If he were anyone else other than Geralt of Rivia, he’d dare to say that it’s romantic, but Geralt is alone, sitting in a tiny boat, waiting for drowners to appear so he can spend his night buried between the thighs of a warm, willing body. 

Probably the bard, if he’s being truthful to himself. 

The man had lived just at the edge of the docks, farthest from the lake. He’d told Geralt about how he’d always wanted a coastal home, sang a little bit, poked fun at Geralt, showing no fear. The children that loitered the town had bounded up to ask for saltwater taffy from the bard, who’d given them the treat after they promised not to come near the lake in the night. 

Then, the children had forced the bard to sing one of his songs. Geralt had chosen to leave then, though the man’s voice draped across his shoulders like a warm coat as he goes. 

Geralt smiles quite dopily at the memory, before catching himself and reaching out to grip the oars. 

Just as he’s about to paddle back to shore, his skiff tips to the right, as if something… pushed it, in curiosity. Geralt looks over the lip of the boat. The fireflies glint and glimmer but does fuck all for visibility, leaving Geralt squinting into the abyss and hoping the drowner decides he needs to die _now_. 

Predictably, something rears up and slams itself into Geralt, the witcher letting out an almighty grunt as he maneuvers his sword to stab it clear through the slippery drowner’s stomach. The blue bastard keens and Geralt pushes it off his sword, kicking it to the far end of his boat as it died. 

The drowner’s pained keening makes the rest of its pack surge up, and Geralt kills them like one would fish in a barrel, stabbing and slicing where he could, his other hand picking carcasses up and shoving it haphazardly into his skiff. Geralt is almost gleeful at the sheer size of the pack, counting a hundred for each body that ended up in his boat. 

After an hour, a series of slashes and something biting his arm savagely, Geralt has a veritable pile of drowner carcasses and a blood soaked sword, hair wet after the drowners had tried, well, _drowning_ him. 

Geralt grunts and kneels down to situate the bodies in a neater pile so he can start rowing back to shore. Happily—though he doesn’t show it—he begins humming one of those songs he’s heard in pubs, something about a siren with perky tits and blue eyes, bawdy but fitting for his little sea excursion. 

A few meters from the shore, his skiff begins rocking violently, and Geralt curses, pulling his sword out of its sheath and barely fending off the sudden wave of very angry drowners; what the _hell_ is wrong with this lake? It’s not normal for such a small body of water to have a shit-fucking-ton of them! 

Geralt curses his luck and any god or goddess that is listening, kicking off the drowners that’s gotten _on_ his boat, all the while precariously balancing himself where he is. He knows he’s in for it when one of the drowners grab at him and successfully pull him down, capsizing the boat with him as he goes. He tightens his grip around his sword, or tries to, because his sudden entrance in the freezing cold lake shocks him so much that his body begins locking up.

_Fuck_ , Geralt laments harshly. Death at the hands of some drowners. 

His back hits the bed of the lake with an internal thud, his hand going slack as his vision begins to swim. The drowners’ beady eyes watch him in the dark, and Geralt tries to snarl threateningly, forgetting that he’s submerged underwater, his precious oxygen depleting fast. 

He closes his eyes to regain his energy for a final push towards the top of the lake, when something enters the water with a harsh splash, the water rocking violently as something powerful began thrashing about. Geralt opens his eyes to find a long, seemingly light grey tail, and he thinks, _shit_ , he _really_ is going to die here, isn’t he? 

Even underneath the water, the smell of blood being spilt—drowner or otherwise—is strong, and the siren is spilling buckets of it as it rips through what is left of the drowner pack, sharp claws and equally sharp teeth glinting dully through the murky water. 

Geralt rests at the bottom of the lake. Grips his sword, gets his legs underneath him, and kicks himself upward to break through the water, only for a drowner to wrap its clawed hand around his ankle and tug _down_. 

The siren whips its head towards him, and where the glint of its claws and teeth are dull, its eyes are like lighthouses, sharp and unnatural. It snarls, does a pivot and shoots like an arrow downwards, corkscrewing through the water to attack Geralt. 

Closer, Geralt can make out its form, the peculiar _blue_ of its entire tail, what seems to be scarlet tapering off into pale pinks as it climbed the length of the appendage, gold gleaming brilliantly, tucked into the graceful colours, colours he can only see because of how close the thing is. The rest of it is dark, the moon’s glow hiding its undoubtedly hideous face, but its figure cuts soft curves and sharp shoulders. 

Despite Geralt quickly losing precious oxygen to give to his brain, he thinks _pretty,_ until the siren slams into him, climbing _down_ , hissing and spitting at the drowner before biting its head clean off. 

The action jostles Geralt harshly and he drops his sword. 

The siren pays this no heed as it wraps long claws into Geralt’s shirt. With a flick of a powerful tail, they heave upwards, the water becoming more clear as Geralt slowly loses his consciousness. Once they break through, the siren painstakingly wades to the shore. 

In the middle of it all, Geralt passes out, and thinks, quite sadly, _the bard._

**

The scent of seafoam startles him to consciousness. 

“Fuck,” he wheezes, “ _shit_ ,” 

His hand comes up to rub at his face, or he tries to, suddenly realising that his hand is wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He looks around wildly, mouth rasping and too-dry as he takes stock of his surroundings. 

He’s… fine. There’s slashes and bite marks around his body, but not more than he originally thought. His boat of drowner heads is sitting on the shore, ready for him to take to town. Geralt grunts and lifts up the bottle in his other hand for him to drink, the taste of blessed, sweet, refreshing—if a bit salty—wine hitting his tongue. 

Which he coughs out. 

_When did—?_ He looks at the bottle in his palm. 

_Seafoam Velen_ , _1201._

Geralt lets out a bark of laughter, taking another long swig of the sweet wine. 

Whoever his saviour is, at least, has a sense of humor. 

** 

A gaggle of buxom young ladies greet him at the gates, their hair done up with clam shells and various flowers, bosoms all but spilling out from their dresses. Loud music is reverberating through the town, men and women dancing and making merry. The scent of seafoam is strong, this scent somehow more… warm, like dipping one’s toes into the sea at the height of summer.

“The monsters!” One of the women intones excitedly, clapping her hands from where they’re threaded through the arm of the other woman, this one almost as tall as Geralt. “Jaskier was right about you!” 

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow. The women giggle drunkenly at him, and it would have been… adorable, if he didn’t think that they were laughing at his expense. One of them dares to reach out to Geralt’s face, presumably to smoothen the wrinkle between his eyebrows, but she’s stopped by her companion, who snatches the hand mid-air as if she were a cat that had spotted a dragonfly. 

“We’ve had a bit of drink,” the woman apologises, flushing red, “Jaskier managed to convince the mayor to… to break out the Velen wine.” 

“Delia!” Her drunken friend admonishes, clapping her tiny hand against Delia’s chest. “We’re to keep that in confidence!” 

“Really sorry,” Delia says to Geralt, an apologetic look on her striking face. “If you’re looking for the mayor, he’s, well,” she smirks impishly, red tinting her cheeks. Geralt watches her with intent, but she seems to be more interested in the swooning pile of pale drunk in her arms. “Just follow the music.” 

With a wink, she shepherds her harem of women off, laughing when they try to tug and pull at the loose neck of her dress. Geralt watches her go with awe. The town seems to be in a constant state of heated passion, intertwined closely with ale and song and dancing, their happiness too thick for Geralt to bear. 

Geralt shakes his head and hikes the little cart he’d appropriated for the use of transporting drowner heads, keeping an ear out for the peculiar sounds of a bard’s lute. He stumbles upon it in a clearing just a ways of the town’s merriment, and is surprised to see the bard sitting in the middle of a ring of children, who seem to be in some state of deep sleep. 

He drops the cart and unsheathes his sword, brandishing it towards the nymph. Jaskier—or whatever in hell his name is—simply looks up and makes a gesture for him to remain silent, continuing to sing the children to sleep. 

One of the children’s eyes crack open to stare at Geralt, smiling before she’s asking something of the siren, who makes a show of thinking until the little girl swats his arm. A brilliant smile spreads his pink lips and he nods, the child nodding before returning to where she had been resting her head on one of her friend’s shoulders. 

Geralt, surprisingly, keeps to where he is and does not make a noise. He doesn’t want to slaughter someone in front of children, no matter how he thinks about monsters. 

Once he’s done, he stands from the middle of the pile of children and gives them soft kisses against the forehead, and once he’s closer to Geralt, they glint a sheen of shiny, unnatural blue, before fading to nothingness. 

“A sleeping spell,” he tells Geralt. “They’ve been restless. The whole town has been restless. And now they’re at peace. Safe.” 

“From anything else but you, it seems,” Geralt snarls, lightly, threateningly stabbing the tip of his blade onto the middle of the bard’s sternum. 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, then motions at the children in a comfortable puppy pile just at the edge of the town, in a clearing that the stars guarded. “Look around, Witcher. None of them are dead by my hand. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but slaughtering a town for my own fancy would leave you with… no town to come to, yes? In fact, you probably wouldn't even have heard of Harviken.” 

Geralt frowns. A siren that has no desire to lay waste, how nobly poetic. 

“Oh, stop it with that look. I haven’t killed them and I never will, despite what your reservations are with my kind.” He begins walking away, “Take your cart and follow me.” 

Geralt decides that he does not like surprises when he follows the siren’s heed, picking up the cart and following him a with few steps between them at all times. 

He still asks, “The children?” 

Jaskier looks over his shoulder, hair spilling down his back, blue eyes glinting like mirrors. “Will be safe.” 

The bard leads him towards an estate at the mouth of the town, overlooking the merriment of the town square. Jaskier instructs him to leave the cart to the side before ushering him into the great mansion, lute slung over onto his back. 

Geralt shivers as they pass long, unlit corridors, his own footsteps too loud for his liking. The siren seems to glide, though, hands carefully situated atop where his ass might begin under all those clothes, looking around as if he were taking a leisurely stroll. The walls are littered with paintings of women, men, children, and Geralt stares at them until he could no longer bear it, quickly catching up to Jaskier. 

At the end of the hall is a large, double door that leads into a room. Jaskier opens it gingerly and steps in, fully expecting Geralt to follow. 

A huge bed is situated across from a great window that overlooks the town, and by that window is a man, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Mayor DeWitt,” Jaskier greets warmly. “I’ve brought a friend.” 

“Jaskier,” the man turns, and Geralt understands why he’s here, watching as the man, rickety as he looks, ambles over to place withered hands onto the bard’s hips, sniffing as he pulls Jaskier closer, as if to _sniff_ the life out of him. 

“It’s time to sleep now, beloved,” Jaskier tells him, carefully guiding him towards the bed. 

“Oh?” The man seems surprised. Then, he laughs. “I haven’t slept in so long… the town…” 

“Will be fine,” Jaskier finishes. “My friend took care of the lake.” 

“The lake? Oh, Jaskier. _Oh_ …” Before the man could wail, Jaskier pushes him down gently and begins singing him a song, but it is obvious that it does nothing for the man. Nothing _magical_ , at least, as the man is nothing but a spirit of violent sorrow, but he seems to calm under Jaskier’s voice, humming along as he settles into the bed. 

Jaskier gives him one last kiss to the forehead, and Geralt wonders, at that moment, if he really is a siren or an angel sent to relieve this man of his suffering. 

The siren’s voice cuts through his musings. “Geralt, if you would please.” His blue eyes stare Geralt down, and with a small, sad smile, he adds. “Make it quick.” 

They both know he can’t. Cleansing spirits is always long and arduous, but somehow… 

With a whispered spell, Geralt presses his sword atop the man’s heart and stabs down, cutting off the soft humming. 

Just like that, the town seems to _breathe_ , the desperate air about it dissipating to nothingness. The people continue about their merriment, though now with a new sense of happiness draped over it. 

Jaskier deflates, as if he’d just been liberated from unseen shackles, but ultimately keeps himself upright. 

“Well, that’s over and done with.” The siren flippantly tells no one, hands akimbo on his lap. Then, he stares at Geralt. “Your money is in a drawer here,” he waves a delicate hand about, looking for all the world like a man that has no purpose. “...Somewhere.” 

“If you weren’t…” Geralt begins, confusion lacing his voice. “Then…” 

“They were sad,” The siren says simply. “And they were clogging up my lake, what with them killing themselves every other month or so. The first one—Mayor DeWitt’s wife, I’d… well, I’d taken care of _her_. She was a nice little snack.” He says with a laugh, but then quickly sobers up. “But then more came to my lake just to die, and I…” 

Geralt nods. Without further ado, he begins rifling through the drawers, making a small, chuffing sound when he finds a heavy bag of gold. When he turns around, Jaskier is still sitting on the bed, staring at the empty space that DeWitt had left. He looks awkward, silent like that. 

With a breath, Jaskier is up and stalking towards him, bright blue eyes unnaturally focused and piercing right through Geralt’s. “Take me with you.” He commands, and Geralt can’t help it. He snorts, shaking his head at the naive little siren. When he’d decided he wasn’t going to kill the thing, he doesn’t know, but he’s not going to take it with him. 

“No.” 

The siren, stubborn as his kind usually is, huffs. “They don’t need me here to keep them happy any longer. My work here is done, so—” 

“My work here is _also_ done,” Geralt cuts him off with a stern glare, “And I didn’t sign up for a…” he frowns and looks down at the man. “... _you_.” 

“Ah, you think you can insult me into fucking off, witcher?” The siren laughs. Geralt shakes his head and lumbers off. “Just so you know, you can’t!” He calls after him, and Geralt laughs to himself. Warmth spreads across his stomach as he goes, already thinking of leaving the town as soon as he reaches Roach. He can have a bath, food, and possibly a whore at the next town he finds himself in. 

He won’t sour Harviken any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> idk i watched mermaid wants a kissy by brian alvarez and i was like "yeah ok". anyways pls comment & kudos thank u xx


End file.
